


Memories like Smoke

by Moit



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Amnesiac Stiles, Angst, Drama, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, M/M, Memory Loss, Pregnancy, Psychological Drama, Slash, Slow Burn, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-07
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-14 06:38:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/833866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moit/pseuds/Moit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles falls off the roof of his dad's house and forgets everything that happened just before Scott was bitten, including his marriage to Derek Hale. Now he and Derek are forced to tip-toe around one another as they wait for Stiles to remember their life together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my beta, Naemi, without whom none of this would be possible. 
> 
> This fic was loosely inspired by my all-time favourite film, Overboard (1985), as well as the much more recent 50 First Dates. I have a soft spot for amnesia fics.
> 
> **Please do not post my fics anywhere else without first asking me. This includes Goodreads and Wattpad. Thank you for respecting me and my work.**

It was stupid, really. Stiles had no business on the roof when there were six werewolves who were more than capable of taking the Stilinskis’ old satellite down, or at least that’s what he should have considered first.

The sound of his son’s panicked, “Oh, shit!” as he fell is what caused John to come running in the first place. “Stiles, what the hell were you doing up there?” he asked, leaning down to help him up. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine, Dad,” Stiles said, batting at his father’s worried hands. “Actually, I can't even remember what I was after,” he added, squinting up at the roof. 

John narrowed his eyes in disapproval. “Well, I'm just glad you didn't break anything. Derek would have a field day with that one.” 

“Who's Derek?” Stiles’ face was devoid of sarcasm or humor. 

Tilting his head to the side, John stared at his son. “You must have hit your head harder than you thought. Are you sure you’re okay? Are you two having problems again?”

“Dad, seriously, who the hell is Derek?” Stiles repeated his question, annoyance creeping steadily into his voice. 

Eyes wide, John grabbed him by the arm. “We’re taking you to the hospital.” 

*

Four hours in the emergency room yielded the dullest diagnosis possible.

“Mr. Stilinski, other than the memory loss, you appear to be suffering from a mild concussion. You are lucky you were not more seriously injured. I would strongly advise you rest for a few days. Give yourself time to readjust. Your memories are likely to come back suddenly, but there is no guarantee. I would suggest following your normal routine for the time being.”

“Even though I can’t remember how I’ve been living the past five years,” Stiles answered dryly. 

“Come on.” His dad patted him on the shoulder sympathetically. “I'll take you to Denny’s. We can have curly fries and talk about what to do.” 

* 

“So who’s Derek?” Stiles plucked the cherry off the top of his milkshake by the stem and bit into the smooth red flesh.

“Derek is . . . a Hale,” his dad said slowly.

“Derek Hale?” Stiles’ eyebrows knitted in thought. “As in the Hales who died in that house fire ten years ago?” 

“It’s more like fifteen now, but yes.”

“Okay, I remember Derek Hale and his sister,” he paused for a moment, “Laura, were the only survivors of the fire, but that still doesn't answer my original question. Why would Derek Hale care if I broke my arm?” He pushed his shake to the side and stared at his father. 

“Do you want the watered-down version or the version that might send you into shock?”

“As long as it doesn’t involve you selling me to him in some sort of drug sale gone bad, I think I can handle it.”

His father’s face was unreadable as he contemplated his next words. “Derek is your husband.”

“I'm married?” Stiles exclaimed. “To Derek freaking Hale? I haven't even told you I'm bi, yet!”

“Obviously, you did, Stiles,” John said gently. “When you were sixteen.” 

“Of course. I fall off the roof and miss out on all the exciting parts of my life like my gay marriage!” As he flailed his hands to emphasize his point, the overhead lights caught on the silver ring he hadn't realized he was wearing. “I am married,” he said, his voice full of amazement as he studied the design etched into the metal around his third finger. 

John heaved a great sigh. “You know, for as crazy as our lives are, I never thought we would be having a conversation like this.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I never thought you’d have to sit me down and tell me I lost five years of my life,” Stiles said, staring glumly into his strawberry shake as their waitress set a plate of curly fries and a bacon cheeseburger down in front of him. “Stiles Stilinski: memory loss edition.”

“We do need to tell Derek,” John said. “He’s going to wonder where you are sooner or later.” 

Stiles’ phone buzzed and he pulled it out of his pocket. “Does he have ESP or something?” Shoving a handful of fries in his mouth, he answered the call. “Yes, darling?”

“We're headed back to the house. Are you still at your dad’s?”

“We’re at Denny’s,” Stiles answered, thankful nobody could hear his heart pounding in his chest. Did Derek's voice sound sexy because his body was used to responding to it, or did it sound sexy just because it _was_? “I guess I’ll meet you at home, then?” Stiles said, looking across the table at his father. 

“Sounds good. See you then.”

Stiles hung up his phone and slid it back into his pocket. “How do you feel about taking me back to Derek's—our—my—” He shook his head. “Could you take me to my house after this? I'm probably in no shape to drive, and I'd rather not face the husband I didn't know I had without a buffer. I can hardly remember what Derek looks like.” 

“Of course,” his dad replied, though he looked a little uneasy. 

They finished their meal and got back into the cruiser. They agreed leaving the Jeep at his dad’s house until Stiles felt well enough to drive was the best idea. 

John turned off the main drag onto a gravel road heading into the woods that Stiles vaguely remembered led to the old Hale house. He sat up straighter in his seat when he saw several cars parked out front. 

“Do Derek and I have company a lot?” 

“On a fairly regular basis,” his dad said, shrugging one shoulder. “Stiles, maybe I should go get Derek and bring him out here. I just don't know that it’s going to be a good idea for you to walk in there and announce you can’t remember anything.” 

“I like that plan,” Stiles agreed. He looked up at the huge house. Suddenly, he felt every bit the fifteen-year-old he remembered being. 

His dad disappeared inside and emerged a few minutes later with Derek in tow. The man was tall, dark and broody. Stiles had to stop himself from doing a double-take at the sight of his husband. How he managed to bag himself the sexiest man he’d ever laid eyes on had yet to be discovered. He fumbled with the door handle and managed to step out of the vehicle without tripping himself. Leaning back against the cruiser, he lifted his hand in a small wave. "Hi." 

“Stiles?” Derek crossed his arms over his chest, inadvertently causing the muscles in his arms to bulge against the fabric of his white t-shirt. His features drew downwards into a concerned frown. “What’s going on? What happened?”

“Derek, you have to promise not to lose it,” John said gently. “Before we went to Denny’s, I took Stiles to the hospital. He fell off the roof earlier and he’s got a concussion and amnesia.” 

“How bad?” Derek asked, his frown deepening. 

“Bad enough that I don’t have any memories of you.” Stiles gave his husband an apologetic smile. 

Derek's features softened as the realization set in. “You don’t remember . . . anything?” 

“His memory goes as far as the summer of his fifteenth birthday,” John supplied helpfully. “It could come back at any time, but until then he’s . . .”

“Fifteen, I guess,” Stiles said. 

Derek heaved a sigh. “How you manage to get yourself into these messes I'll never know.” 

“Just my good luck, I suppose,” Stiles grinned, but his joke fell flat. His father and Derek stared at him. “Tough crowd,” he grimaced, looking down to study his shoelaces. 

“I can't take him in there without giving the others some kind of warning,” Derek said to John like Stiles wasn't standing right there. “Most of them should pick up on it pretty quickly. They’ll know something's—” Derek inhaled deeply, “—wrong. Wait out here until I tell the—everyone.” 

“Sounds like a plan,” Stiles muttered, burying his hands in his pockets as Derek disappeared back inside. “So that’s the old ball and chain.” 

“Stiles—” his father started and stopped. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I just want you to know that whatever happens, we all still love you and support you. I know you can’t remember the man you’ve become, but just know that I am proud of you, son.” 

“Wow, thanks, Dad.” The unexpected compliment made Stiles feel like his father was taking this whole amnesia thing a lot harder than he was. It made sense, considering he could remember everything, but still. 

Derek stepped back out onto the porch and motioned to them. As they walked up to the house, Stiles fought to control his breathing. “They’re my friends, right?”

“These people would give up their lives for you,” John said with no small amount of emotion in his voice as he clapped a hand on his son’s shoulder. 

“And when is the last time I had a panic attack?” 

“Not since I've known you,” Derek rumbled. He held the door open so that Stiles had to walk past him to go inside. They were almost the same height, but Derek’s brawn made him feel very small. Stiles wasn’t sure he disliked the feeling. 

They walked into the house and Stiles was suddenly hit with the emotional weight of the situation. All but one of the people in the living room was familiar, at least. Scott was there, and Lydia (Stiles noticed that she failed to make his heart pound like usual), her asshole boyfriend, Jackson, and three people he knew from school that he wouldn’t exactly call friends. There was also a very pretty brunette sitting next to Scott that Stiles was sure he would have remembered if he had met her before. They all looked so comfortable with one another, and so much _older_. 

He hardly heard his dad say his name before he was practically running to crush Scott in a hug. “It is so good to see you right now.”

“It’s good to see you, too, buddy,” Scott said, patting Stiles’ back. “Everything okay? Derek told us you fell off the roof and hit your head pretty hard.” 

“Can we talk privately somewhere? Please?” He supposed he was acting insane compared to what they were used to, but Scott was the only person whom he felt could help him get through this right now. 

“Sure. We could go upstairs to your room?” 

Stiles avoided meeting anyone's eyes, especially Derek's, as he followed Scott up the stairs. They walked down a long hallway to a door that opened into a spacious room with a large bed in the middle. Several photographs of Stiles and Derek sat on the dresser, including one of them on their wedding day. Stiles traced the frame with his fingertips. They both looked so happy, but all he could feel was grief that he couldn't remember what the day felt like. Turning around, he faced Scott, who was sitting on the bed. 

“I can’t remember anything. Logically, I know this is not some elaborate joke. Clearly, you’re older, and I’m . . . ” He stared into the mirror above the dresser. “I’m actually kind of hot.” He ran a hand through his longer hair with somewhat puzzled wonder.

Scott barked out a laugh. “It was Allison and Lydia’s idea for you to grow your hair back out. None of us expected that Derek would like it so much.” 

“Can we not talk about that for a minute?” Stiles asked, rubbing a hand over his forehead. He felt the beginnings of what was either a migraine or residual pain from his fall. “Just . . . that. Anything involving my sexuality or Derek or the fact that I’m apparently married.” 

“Sure.” Scott schooled his features into something more serious. “What do you want to talk about, then?” 

“I don’t know,” Stiles said, sinking down onto the bed next to his best friend. “I used to think something like this happening would be so cool. I’d be like a guy in the movie who woke up, and because he had amnesia, his life was suddenly totally awesome. But it's not. It actually really sucks. It’s like when you've got a name or a word on the tip of your tongue but you can’t remember what it is. I know there is a ton of stuff I forgot—I can actually feel, like, the block in my memory, or whatever, but I just can’t reach past it.” 

“Have you gotten a flash of any memories at all?”

“No,” Stiles moaned. “I mean, what am I supposed to do if my memory never comes back? I lose five years of my life that I somehow have to relearn so that I can be the guy I was yesterday? Scott, I can't even remember yesterday. I have absolutely no idea what happened.” 

“Well, yesterday was Sunday. As usual, we all came over for brunch, and Derek made pancakes. It was a pretty normal day.” 

“Derek made pancakes?” Stiles asked, raising an eyebrow. “I cannot picture a guy who looks like that standing in the kitchen making pancakes. He seems more likely to growl and then eat _you_ , instead.” 

Scott chuckled. “Well, I hate to burst your bubble, Stiles, but your cooking skills haven’t improved much since you were fifteen. You tried to bake Derek a turkey once and almost burned the house down.” 

“Ouch.” Stiles clutched his chest as though Scott had wounded him physically. “Give a guy a little credit. I'm a master at ramen noodles.” 

“You’ve burnt those, too.” 

“Touche.” 

Scott scratched at the back of his head nervously. “We should, uh, probably get back downstairs. I imagine everyone else wants to know how you’re feeling.” 

“Yeah, so, what’s up with this whole ‘group’ thing we apparently have going on? I mean, from what I remember, it was just you and me against the world. We actually have friends now? A bunch of them?” 

“That's . . .” Scott started, but trailed off. “I should probably let Derek explain that one.” 

Puzzled, Stiles allowed his best friend to lead him back downstairs. The buzz of conversation died as they walked into the living room. He glanced apprehensively at the curious and concerned faces.

“Don't stop on my account.” Stiles flopped down in the nearest unoccupied chair. His dad gave him an encouraging smile, which he returned, though it looked more like he was just baring his teeth.

“Derek told us what happened, Stiles,” said the pretty brunette sitting next to him. “We’re really worried about you.” 

“Thanks,” Stiles drawled, “but who are you? I don't mean to be rude, but I don’t remember you.” 

“I'm Allison. Scott’s girlfriend.” She gave him a friendly smile.

Stiles’ eyes widened comically. “How did Scott manage to bag someone as hot as you?” His gaze flicked nervously to Derek as he realized what he had just said. The other man gave no indication that he’d even heard him. “I mean, that’s great, considering I’m obviously married and not attracted to you at all, especially considering you’re my best friend’s girl.” 

Allison just smiled wider, showing off the dimples in her cheeks. “It’s okay, Stiles.” 

“You probably don’t remember us either,” the blonde girl sitting across from him said. She was very pregnant, Stiles noticed for the first time. “I’m—”

“Erica Reyes. I remember you, but not like this. You look like you’re gonna pop,” Stiles blurted. “Ugh, I really need to learn to control my mouth. Sorry, I mean. Wow, yeah. Uhh, congratulations. You know. Your baby daddy must be very proud.” He buried his face in his palms. “I’m sorry. I’m no good at this whole ‘get to know people you’ve forgotten you know already’ thing.” 

“Derek is the baby’s father,” Erica said gently. 

Stiles sat back in shock, his eyes darting from her to Derek. “Is this the part where you all forgot to tell me I’m getting a divorce?” 

“She’s carrying our baby, Stiles,” his husband spoke up from the space he was occupying behind the couch. His voice was low and gravely. Stiles wondered if he could (or had?) gotten off from the sound of it alone. 

“I'm actually dating Boyd,” Erica said, taking the hand of the dark-skinned man next to her. 

“And you’re okay with the whole surrogacy thing?” Stiles asked. 

Boyd shrugged one of his wide shoulders. “We would do anything for you guys.” 

Again with the devotion. It was starting to creep Stiles out just the smallest bit, knowing that his friends were so dedicated to him, and yet he didn’t understand why. 

“And Isaac Lahey, and Jackson Whitmore and—” Stiles’ eyes fell on the remaining woman in the room, “—Lydia Martin. I’ve been in love with you since the third grade. How could I ever forget you?” His eyes slid over to Derek again. “Well, considering I've managed to forget my devoted and loving husband, I guess it’s a pretty good bet that I could forget you, too.”

“We’re just glad you weren’t seriously injured, Stiles,” Lydia said. She elbowed Jackson in the ribs. “Right?” 

Jackson shifted his body away from her. “Of course. Glad you’re in one piece.” He gave a curt nod. 

Stiles shook his head. “If you try to tell me we’re friends, I'm going to call you a liar.” 

Turning to Lydia, Jackson gave her one of his I-know-better-than-you faces. “Told you he wouldn’t buy the bullshit.” 

“Congratulations, you know Stiles better than the rest of us,” Lydia said sarcastically. 

“I just find it really hard to believe that Jackson and I would be anything even close to resembling friends, despite five years of I don’t even know what.” 

“Trust me, Stiles,” Isaac said, chiming in for the first time, “You have done way more for us than we could ever repay.”

The attention of the group shifted gradually to Derek, who sighed heavily and crossed his arms over his chest. 

“There’s something big I'm missing, isn’t there?” Stiles asked, trepidation creeping into his voice. His knees bounced nervously, as if of their own accord. “Something last-five-years big.” 

Derek wandered into the middle of the group. He stopped in front of Stiles and dropped his arms from where they had been crossed over his chest. “I never imagined we’d be having this conversation.” 

Stiles' eyes flicked nervously around the room. “Okay, now you're all starting to freak me out. What's going on? Dad? Scott?” Instinctually, he sought out the only people who made him feel safe. They both averted their eyes, deferring to Derek. Stiles glanced up at his husband once more. “What aren't they telling me?” 

“I'm a werewolf, Stiles.” 

Stiles stared at him for nearly thirty seconds of silence before he burst out laughing. “That’s a good one guys!” When he saw that no one else had so much as cracked a smile, the humor died on his lips. “No, seriously. What aren’t you telling me?” 

“This is my pack, and I'm the Alpha,” Derek said. Stiles could have sworn his eyes glowed red for a moment and he felt goose bumps race down his arms.

“I think my concussion is catching up to me,” Stiles said, his voice betraying his unease as his head began to pound. He rose to his feet, despite feeling like his knees were full of jelly. “Maybe I should go lay down.” 

The others watched him head for the stairs with varying degrees of concern and pity. Stiles missed the silent conversation that occurred behind his back.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this chapter, I have upped the rating of the fic to Mature. That rating could change as the fic progresses, and I will add tags as necessary.

When Stiles woke up from his nap, the house was dark and silent. He opened the door and tiptoed to the top of the stairs. 

"Derek?" he called tentatively. He wandered down to the first floor, meandering from room to room, and still, no Derek. Stiles raced back to the bedroom. Since he was finally alone in the house, he could engage in a small reconnaissance mission to find out what he could about the life he’d forgotten.

The first place he checked was the closet. If he had something to hide, that's where it would be. The door he opened, however, turned out to lead to the bathroom. The marble shower with enough faucets to spray someone in every direction looked intriguing, and he was fairly sure the bathtub doubled as a jacuzzi, but neither of those conveniences offered him any answers. 

Stiles spent a few minutes puzzling out things like which drawers belonged to him. Derek, by far, cared more about “manscaping,” if the sheer amount of styling products said anything about his hygiene. Stiles ran his fingertips over the bottles of shaving cream, deodorant, and something called “beard lube.” He himself appeared to own only one razor and a tube of hair gel. He didn’t even know which toothbrush belonged to him.

Nothing else in the bathroom caught his interest. Their towels were white, and the toilet was, unsurprisingly, a toilet. At least when he flushed it, nothing came spraying out at him, he thought to himself, wrinkling his nose. 

Wandering back into the bedroom, Stiles headed for the second door, which indeed turned out to lead to the walk-in closet, and not Narnia. (He had his doubts for a moment.) It held more clothes than he'd ever want to see, certainly more clothes than he could ever wear, and definitely more than he'd ever want to own. Like the bath products, nearly two-thirds belonged to Derek. His husband certainly had good taste, but it seemed like he needed retail therapy to cope with his life or something. 

Stiles dug around in the pockets of all the jackets he could find that were in his size. It felt naughty to be snooping around like this, but it wasn't like he was going to scold himself for playing detective in his own closet. Unfortunately, his search only yielded two sticks of gum, a wrinkled five-dollar bill, a handful of cough drops, and a strip of pictures from a photobooth. They were of him and Derek, of course, but the Derek in the picture seemed nothing like the edition he had met earlier. Each of the four pictures depicted them laughing, kissing, and making faces at the camera. Stiles felt a jolt of dismay that he hadn't seen that side of Derek, and guilt that he couldn't remember him. He tucked the photostrip back where he found it and carried the other detritus into the bedroom where he dumped it on the dresser. 

Having found no clues, Stiles set to work opening drawers and digging through their contents to see if he had hidden anything there. The only thing he found that fell under the “one of these things is not like the other one” category was the wooden box full of sex toys nestled among his t-shirts. Shocked and more than a little excited by what memories possibly came with the box, he buried it once again under his “Chemists do it periodically . . . on the table” shirt. Not that he needed evidence that he and Derek had an (apparently) very active sex life.

He was sliding the drawer shut when Derek's voice startled him. 

“What are you doing?” 

In his haste, Stiles smashed two of his fingers. He pulled them out and shook them in an effort to ease the pain. “Don't sneak up on me like that! Geez! You'll give a guy a heart attack! Make some noise, or . . . something.” Stiles' mouth went dry as he looked over at Derek and saw that he was only wearing a pair of ripped, faded jeans. His chest and feet were bare, and he was covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Dear Lord. 

“Stiles?” Derek asked, his face every bit the concerned husband, “Are you okay?” 

Realizing he was gaping like an idiot, Stiles closed his mouth and blinked several times. “Yeah, I was—looking for—things. To help my memory, you know. I'm trying to get it back. And stuff.” Stiles hoped his constant rambling would distract Derek from the sudden tent in his pants. “I woke up and realized you were gone, so I just . . . started to amuse myself.” He leaned back against the dresser in what he hoped was a nonchalant manner.

“I went for a run.” Derek proceeded to unbutton and unzip his jeans. “And now I'm going to take a shower,” he said slowly, pushing the denim down his hips so that it fell in a puddle around his ankles. 

Stiles couldn’t help his jaw from falling slack.

“It's not like you've never seen my dick before.” Derek met his gaze directly and gave the barest flicker of a smile before turning towards the bathroom. 

*

By the time they sat down for dinner, Stiles appeared to have recovered from his previous embarrassment.

“This is awesome,” he gushed around a mouthful of noodles. He couldn’t seem to shovel enough in his mouth at once. 

“It’s one of your favorites.”

Stiles nodded and swallowed. Derek’s words sent a trill of heat through his body that he didn’t quite understand. They ate in silence for a few more minutes.

“Are we always this quiet?” 

“No.” Derek took a sip from his wine glass. “But I usually let you do all the talking.” 

Stiles' face fell. “Oh.” He wracked his brain, trying to think of something to say. “So, uh, how are the Mets doing this year?”

“They're in fourth.”

“Oh. Who's in first?”

“The Phillies.” 

“Of course,” Stiles sighed, earning a chuckle from Derek.

“I called your boss earlier.”

“I have a job?” He waved his hand nonchalantly. “Of course I have a job.” As steadily as he could manage, he added, “What, um, what exactly do I do for a living? Am I still in college?”

Derek nodded. “Yes. You've been driving over to Parkland since the beginning of the school year. And you work for one of your professors in the chemistry lab.” 

“Really?” Stiles' eyes lit up with interest. “What do I do there?” 

“Are you serious right now?” Derek stared at him. “You’re majoring in chemical engineering.” He said it like someone else would say, 'I just stepped in dog shit.' “I don't understand any of it to save my life, but you love it, so.” He shrugged. “I humor you when you want to blather on about cell processes and distillation.” 

“I do blather a lot,” Stiles agreed, twirling his fork absently. His chin was resting on his palm as he listened to Derek recount the minutiae of his job. “You really love me, don't you?” 

The question must have caught Derek off guard, but his voice remained steady. “Of course I do,” was his automatic answer. “I just wish you were _you_.” 

“Me too. You have absolutely no idea how badly I wish I could just remember everything I've forgotten. It sucks. For all I know, I'm supposed to wake up and go to high school tomorrow.” 

“It's also June,” Derek said softly. 

“Was that a joke?” Stiles asked, squinting through his lashes at his husband, who seemed to be hiding a smile. He barked out a short laugh. “It totally was. I know you can smile, dude, I've seen the pictures.” 

Derek stood up from the table and began clearing their plates. “Well, right now I don't have a whole lot to smile about.” 

“Is that some sort of dig at me for falling off the roof?” Stiles instantly tensed. His first day with his husband and already they were having a fight. Great. “For one: I can’t remember you. For two: it’s not my fault I fell of the roof, and for three, get your head out of your ass because I’m _trying_!”

“Stiles . . . ” Derek closed his eyes and scrunched up his face like the words caused him physical pain. “There is absolutely no reason we should be having this conversation right now, and I'm acting like a dick.” He turned and walked into the kitchen, but Stiles was hot on his heels. 

“Wait a minute! Derek! You can't just walk away from me after we not-fight! I want some answers!” 

“Answers to what?” 

“I don’t know—I don’t know.” Stiles fisted both hands in his hair. “How did we get together?” he asked finally, his voice heavy with emotion. 

Derek turned around, leaned back against the sink and crossed his arms over his chest. That smile still played on his lips as he considered Stiles, but his expression was unreadable. “You were doing some research for me—in the living room, actually. You were sitting in my desk chair telling me about whatever it is you were looking up. Honestly, I can't even remember what it was, now, because I was so captivated by your mouth.” His gaze flickered down and Stiles licked his lips self-consciously. 

“My mouth?” 

“You're doing it right now,” Derek said, dropping his arms and closing the distance between them. “You lick your bottom lip, pull it into your mouth, bite down on it and then repeat the whole process. That's what you were doing when I kissed you.” He was close enough to breathe the words into Stiles' mouth. The scent of Derek's cologne was making him dizzy.

Stiles held his breath and his eyelids fluttered closed as he waited to feel Derek's lips on his, but all he felt was the gust of cold air as Derek stepped away from him and started the dishwasher.

“Of course then I pushed you away and told you to get the fuck out of my house.” 

Stiles' eyes flew open in surprise. “What? Why would you do that? I thought you were telling me about when we got together.” 

“Oh, I am,” Derek said, clearly enjoying this. “But then you told me that it was, okay, let me remember exactly how you said this: 'about damn time you get your head out of your ass and go for something you want, instead of moping around the house all day.' You seem to have a thing for telling me to get my head out of my ass.” 

“That definitely sounds like me,” Stiles replied, grinning widely.

Derek gave him a close-lipped smile. “Two days later we went on our first date.” 

“Where did you take me?”

“Denny's.” 

Stiles raised an eyebrow. “ _Denny's_? Way to go, big spender.”

Derek's expression challenged him right back. “I let you pick.” 

“Oh.” Stiles let out an embarrassed chuckle. “Well, I'm not surprised, considering my favorite food is . . .” he trailed off, staring at Derek curiously. “What is my favorite food, Derek?”

“Curly fries,” the other man replied nonplussed. 

“And at Denny's I always get a . . .”

“Strawberry shake.” 

Stiles grinned. “Favorite movie?”

“Terminator, though it's tied with Die Hard.” 

“Favorite band.”

“Everclear.” 

“Season.”

“Are we going to do this all night?” Derek sighed. 

“No. Answer the question.” 

“Summer,” Derek said, stalking towards Stiles again. “Because your birthday is in June. And your favorite position is in my lap facing me, so you can look at me when you cum.” 

“Okay, wow, that was _descriptive_ ,” Stiles laughed nervously. 

“Any more questions?” Derek asked in a low, dangerous voice. 

“Nope!” Stiles squeaked. “I think that about covers it.” 

“Let me know if something comes up,” Derek said, giving Stiles' body a meaningful once-over before disappearing into the living room. 

Stiles released the breath he didn't know he was holding and his upper body sank to the counter. He was in way over his head this time, and for once it wasn't his fault. 

*

The first one to turn in was Stiles. He wasn't sure what their nightly routine was, or whether they usually kissed before bed, so he just sort of nodded and said he was going upstairs. 

He was almost asleep when Derek opened the bedroom door. It was curiosity, more than anything, that made him open his eyes. 

“What are you doing?” he asked in a harsh whisper as Derek dropped his jeans. At least he was wearing boxer-briefs this time.

“Going to bed?” Derek said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

Stiles clutched the comforter at his throat as Derek lifted the other edge of the blanket. “Here?” His voice sounded terrified. 

“Seriously, Stiles?” Derek’s shoulders slumped. Defeated, he dragged the afghan off the end of the bed and headed for the door. 

“Where are you going?” Stiles asked timidly. 

Derek stopped, but he didn't turn around. “To sleep on the couch, because you're obviously too afraid to share a bed with me, despite the copious amount of sex we've had over the years that you can't remember.” 

Stiles bit down on his bottom lip. He was being ridiculous. The box of dildos in his dresser proved Derek's words, even if Stiles himself had absolutely no memory of them. “Sleep here,” Stiles said, giving in. He narrowed his eyes. “Just, no funny business, Mister.” 

Unexpectedly, Derek chuckled at the comment. “That's what you said the first time we shared a bed.” He threw the afghan haphazardly at Stiles' feet and lay down beside him. “Is this safe enough for you?” he asked in a mild taunt, eyeing the nearly person-sized space between them. 

“It's fine,” Stiles gritted out, forcing himself to roll over so Derek couldn't see the effect he was having on him.

“Goodnight, Stiles,” Derek said softly. 

“Goodnight Derek,” Stiles parroted. _I think I'm supposed to love you_ , his mind added silently. 

*

Stiles woke the next morning in what felt like a heated cocoon of pillows. As the fog of sleep cleared his mind, however, he realized that it was a person, not pillows, wrapped around his body. The feeling wasn't unpleasant, but it gave him a particularly awkward boner, especially when he realized that Derek's morning wood was nestled tightly into the crack of his ass. 

“Morning,” Derek breathed, nuzzling Stiles' neck before placing a kiss there. 

Unsure what to do or say, Stiles remained still. Derek must have either realized that he was an unwilling participant in the morning cuddle session, or he remembered that his husband had amnesia. Either way, he released Stiles like he'd been burnt. He rolled away and off the bed. 

“Sorry,” he muttered gruffly as he stalked into the bathroom and shut the door. 

Stiles flopped onto his back, staring up a the ceiling. “I never said I didn't like cuddling,” he grumbled. Life with Derek was turning out to be hot one minute and cold the next. 

By the time Derek emerged from the bathroom freshly showered and clothed, Stiles was sitting at the dining room table eating a bowl of Cap'n Crunch. He was pleased to see his favorite cereal in the cabinet and dug in with relish.

“So, uh, what are your plans for today?” Stiles asked as nonchalantly as he could while Derek poured himself a cup of coffee. He was wearing a dark suit with a light blue shirt and no tie. 

“I've got to go to work,” he said in a tone that made it sound like the most obvious answer. 

“Oh,” Stiles said, slightly dismayed. “What do you do?”

“I'm a realtor.” 

Stiles stared at him for a moment. “You? A realtor? As in, work with the general public and be nice and friendly and not growly as you sell houses and talk about people wanting a white picket fence with a dog and 2.5 kids?” 

“Yes, Stiles.” Derek sounded exasperated. “Any other questions? I've got to go,” he said, checking his watch. 

“Actually,” Stiles popped up from the chair and set his empty bowl in the sink. “Could you give me a ride to my dad's house so I can get my Jeep?” 

Derek narrowed his eyes. “Should you be driving?” 

“I'm fine,” Stiles insisted. “Besides, you're going to work and I'll be alone in this big house all day. I may want to drive around town and see what I've forgotten.” 

“All right,” Derek agreed reluctantly. “But if anything happens to you . . . “ 

“I promise to behave myself, _dear_ ,” Stiles said, following him out of the house. 

*

“You affectionately call this my dick-stiffer,” Derek said as they climbed into the Camaro. 

“What? Why would I call it—” 

The force with which Derek gunned the engine was all the answer Stiles needed. He self-consciously folded one ankle onto his knee. Either he and Derek hadn't had sex in way too long or he was just exceptionally horny lately.

The cruiser was gone when Stiles and Derek got to the Sheriff's house, but his Jeep was still parked in the driveway. 

“Shit.” Stiles patted his pockets. “I think I left my car keys in the house, and that also has the key to my dad's house on it. Or at least it should.” 

Silently, Derek unhooked a key from his own ring and handed it to Stiles. “We both have a key to your dad's house.” 

“Well, that's convenient,” Stiles replied with a grin.

He returned a moment later with his green Parkland lanyard dangling from two fingers. As he leaned through the open window to hand Derek back his key, the other man reflexively pursed his lips for a kiss. He stopped just short of their lips meeting. 

“If anything happens today, give me a call, and I'll be home in less than ten minutes,” Derek said in a rush. 

“I'll be _fine_ ,” Stiles reassured him, trying to shove down the feeling of disappointment in his chest. “Have a good day.” Derek was gone before he finished raising his hand in a wave. “Thanks, Derek. I'll have a great day, too,” he said in a mocking tone, dropping his arm against his side. 

*

Stiles spent the first half of his day at his and Derek’s house, sifting through photo albums and generally poking around to see if anything sparked a memory. Unfortunately, the only memories he could conjure were of his mother when he found his old baby book. That was enough to convince him to put the photos away. 

He wandered around the house some more, but nothing could really fill in his blank memories any more than wandering around a stranger's house could give him theirs. He did learn a lot about Derek, though, and a bit more about himself. For instance, while digging through the kitchen, he discovered that Derek must be partial to steak, given by the sheer amount of it stored in the freezer, and they had succumbed to the ease of peanut butter and jelly in the same jar. Sadly, not even the bottles of Yoo-hoo, one of which Stiles gratefully snagged, could bring back his memories. 

Jogging up the stairs to the bedroom, he retrieved his phone from the dresser, where he'd left it the night before. He thanked his lucky stars that Apple hadn't thought it necessary to change the layout of their iPhones too much in five years. 

“Hey, dude, how's it going?” Scott's voice sounded over the line after the second ring. 

“Boring, actually. Derek is at work and I'm running out of things to do with myself. So talk to me.”

“What about?”

“I don't know. College, maybe? Derek told me that I'm attending Parkland. Probably not my first pick, but I'm guessing with the whole 'marriage,' thing, I wanted to stay in Beacon Hills.” 

“Something like that,” Scott said evasively. “I go to San Diego State, and Allison goes to Berkley, so it's not awesome, but we make it work. We're both home for the summer, so that makes it a lot easier. And I'm helping out at Deaton's. Isaac works there part-time, too. ” 

“Isaac?” Stiles took a long drink from his Yoo-hoo bottle, considering this. “I guess I don’t—didn’t know him very well.” 

“Well, yeah,” Scott chuckled like it was obvious. “He’s been there almost as long as I have.” 

Stiles sat back in the chair. “What about the others? Lydia? Jackson? Are they just home for the summer?”

“Yeah. Jackson got into Stanford, but Lydia wasn't willing to move across the country without him, so she goes to Yale and he’s at Princeton.”

“How romantic,” Stiles said sourly.

“Hey, married man, remember?”

“What's up with that, anyway?” Stiles spun the ring around his finger. “Me getting married so young, I mean.”

Scott made a non-committal noise. “You and Derek are in love. You didn't want to wait. Nobody was really surprised, if that helps. You and Derek just make sense.”

“Well, I'm not gonna lie. We do make a hot couple.”

“That's a matter of opinion,” Scott drawled.

“Hey, Derek thinks I'm hot enough to make a baby with me.” Stiles paused. “Why did we decide to do that?”

Scott’s answer wasn’t exactly what Stiles was expecting. “Why does anyone decide to have a baby? You and Derek want to start a family, and Erica was willing to be a surrogate. She and Boyd decided to stick around Beacon Hills after graduation, and since they aren’t planning to start a family of their own any time soon, she was the obvious choice.”

“So, what, did Derek jerk off into a cup and shoot it up Erica's cooter turkey-baster style?”

“Something like that,” Scott said. “Actually, my mom—”

“Your mom squirted my husband's sperm up Erica's baby chute?” Stiles nearly shot chocolate milk drink out his nose. “Dude, gross.” He covered his eyes as if the mental image was physically assaulting him.

“It actually took about three months using Derek's . . . donation before Erica actually got pregnant.”

“Okay, new subject,” Stiles said, waving a hand. The conversation turned to other, mundane things like the new Grand Theft Auto that Stiles couldn’t remember and was therefore tripping over himself with excitement to play it. He had Scott and video games. All was right in the world. For now.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The school Stiles attends, Parkland, is loosely based off a college in Illinois. Obviously, Beacon Hills is not a real town, but I needed a college, so there we are.

For Stiles, trying to remember what he'd forgotten was like trying to find a pair of glasses when you need them to see. His days began to fall into a routine, but it was by default, more than anything. Stiles would wake up with Derek plastered to his back and they would both pull away, pretending nothing happened. Derek would go to work, leaving Stiles to his own devices. At the end of the day, Derek would make dinner and they'd spend the evening chatting aimlessly. Stiles might not have known Derek as well as he should have, but even he could tell there was a huge block of familiarity missing between them. 

By Thursday, Stiles was so bored with veritably sitting at home twiddling his thumbs that he asked Scott to take him to his school. 

"You sure about this, dude?" Scott asked, fiddling with his keys as they walked into the Barry K. Leonard College of Science. 

"Who knows," Stiles said, taking the front stairs two at a time, "maybe I'll take one look at my boss and suddenly remember everything." 

Scott raised both eyebrows, to which Stiles sighed loudly and wrenched open the door. "Hey, it was a nice thought," he grumbled, stepping into the eerily quiet building. 

They walked down a long hallway and then up the stairs to the second floor. Stiles stopped several times to examine various posters on the walls and one shelf in the corridor that held row upon row of creatures in jars. 

"Those things always creep me out," Scott said, making a face. 

"I think they're cool," Stiles replied, waggling his eyebrows. 

"Says the guy who faints at the sight of blood." 

"Things in jars are just dead. As long as the dead things aren't bloody, I'm good." 

"Just keep telling yourself that, Stiles," Scott said, patting his friend on the shoulder. He turned the corner and held out his hands in a grand gesture. The door in front of them read **LABORATORY – ALL ENTRANTS MUST WEAR SAFETY GOGGLES**. "This is it." 

"And I just . . . go in?" Stiles asked, pointing with his thumb like a hitchhiker. 

"Unless you want to stand in the hallway all day." 

Steeling his nerves, Stiles straightened his back and pushed the door to the lab open. Or at least, it would have opened if he turned the handle. "You're funny," he said, without looking back to see Scott laughing silently to himself. 

When he did finally manage to get into the lab, Stiles was greeted by rows of black-topped tables, not unlike the ones he was familiar with at Beacon High. A grey-haired man stood at one of them, peering into a microscope. He looked up with the door entered. 

"Stiles," he said, a grin splitting his wizened features, making him look even older for the lines around his eyes and mouth. When the young man did not make any indication that he knew him, he nodded slowly. "I spoke to Derek on Monday. He told me about your accident. I suppose I should introduce myself, then, shouldn't I?" 

"It might be helpful," Stiles nodded. Vaguely, he thought his attitude might be too flippant with a professor, but figured he couldn't get fired due to amnesia. 

"I'm Dr. Richard Thomas, though usually you just call me Doc.,, or if you're in a particularly sassy mood, Dr. T." 

"Huh." Stiles dug his tongue into the side of his cheek, unsure what to say to this man. Maybe coming to Parkland had been a bad idea, after all. 

Thankfully, Scott came to his rescue. "Stiles wanted to see where he worked. He thought it might jog his memory a bit." 

"And?" Dr. Thomas asked, looking at Stiles over the rim of his wire-framed glasses.

"No dice," Stiles said with a shrug. 

"It will come back to you,” Dr. Thomas nodded, sounding more like he was talking to himself than the boys as he shuffled back to his microscope. "Just give it time. The human mind is a marvel that we have yet to pin down." 

"I think that's our cue," Stiles stage-whispered. 

Scott wasted no time ushering him out the door. 

*

When Parkland yielded no answers, Stiles turned to Erica. Her phone number was listed in his contacts between Derek and Isaac like it belonged there, which, Stiles supposed, it did. 

"Hello, Stiles," she said as she answered the phone. Her tone sounded like it was an incredible inconvenience to be bothered. 

"Hey, uh, Erica?" Stiles chewed nervously on the end of the pen in his hand. 

"You called me."

"Yeah, um, is this a bad time? I can totally call back later if you're busy or washing your . . . dog . . . or something. It's really not that important, I was just going to—"

" _Stiles_."

"Yeah?"

"What do you want?" 

Stiles spit out the pen cap that was so chewed up, it wouldn't serve its purpose anymore. "Do you think you could meet me for coffee? I have some questions for you." 

"I suppose," Erica said like it would be a great hardship for her. 

"Great! I'll see you at The Drip in an hour." 

Stiles beat Erica to the coffee shop by about 10 minutes. He was already nursing a hot chocolate despite the nearly 90-degree temperature outside when she waddled slowly into the store. Jumping up, Stiles ran over to escort her to his table. 

"Thanks, but I managed to drive here just fine," she said, brushing off his arm and settling into the seat in front of him. "You have questions. Ask me." 

"Are you always . . ."

"Pissy? It's the hormones. Sue me." Erica reached across the table and stole Stiles' hot chocolate. 

"I was going to say 'such a bitch,' but that works, too. Do you want me to get you one?"

"Nah," she said around the rim of the cup, "this one is good." 

"O-kay," Stiles blew out his breath. "So what made you decide to carry mine and Derek's child?" 

Erica raised her eyebrows. "You go right for the kill, don't you? Stiles, there really isn't a golden explanation other than the fact that you guys wanted to have kids, and since Derek’s a werewolf, it made sense that another werewolf would carry his baby. Boyd already told you we would do anything for you guys; what more do you need to know? And haven't you talked to Derek about any of this?" 

"Derek isn't exactly forthcoming with the information. He just sort of grunts and answers my questions like they're a great strain on his psyche. Kind of like what you're doing," Stiles said, twisting the napkin in his hands to pieces.

"Do you really think I have the time or the inclination to fuck with you right now?" Erica shot back, crossing her arms over her swollen belly. 

"So, this baby."

"Yes?" Erica prompted. 

"It's really Derek's?" Stiles asked, raising an eyebrow. 

Erica stared at him. "Are you kidding me?"

Stiles made a face and shrugged. "You're like 100% sure?" 

"What do you really want to ask me, Stiles?" Erica asked, leaning as far as she could over the table. 

"Can you just . . . talk to me about my relationship with Derek?" he formed his hands into claws in front of his face like they would help pull out the memories trapped in his mind. 

"What do you want to know?" 

"Anything," Stiles sighed. "Derek is like this computer password I can't seem to crack. One minute he wants to cuddle and the next he's in a hurry to get to work. He'll hardly even talk to me. I mean, is that our relationship? Does he even _like_ me?"

"Of course he likes you." Erica's expression softened. "Why do you think he married you?"

Stiles looked down at his stolen cocoa, annoyed. Of course she was right, but it was so much easier asking a (seemingly) non-threatening pregnant woman questions about his marriage than it was his own husband. 

Erica stood up with a little difficulty. She waved Stiles' helping hand away and slid his cup back towards him. "Talk to Derek. If you have any questions after that, then give me a call." 

Stiles watched her leave with the feeling of dread pooling in his lower belly. 

*

On Friday, Derek came home from work appearing more agitated than Stiles had seen him. He stripped off his jacket and tossed it carelessly over a kitchen chair, loosened his tie, and stomped up the stairs. 

Stiles followed him several minutes later to make sure he wouldn't be walking in on Derek naked. Not that he didn't want to see him naked (again), but he wasn't sure now was the right time for that sort of "getting to know you" exercise. 

Derek's back was to the door, and he was wearing only a pair of cut-off jeans shorts that looked too small to be decent. He looked over his shoulder as Stiles entered the room. 

"Is . . . everything okay?" Stiles asked gently. He hesitated in the doorway, unsure if his concern would be taken the wrong way. 

"It's a full moon tonight," Derek said, fixing his stare on his husband. 

"Okay," Stiles said slowly, like there was a joke he didn't understand. 

Derek continued to stare at him, his hazel eyes serious. "The pack will be here around 8." 

"The pack? Are you a smoker and forgot to tell me?" 

“Our friends, Stiles,” Derek ground out.

Stiles laughed softly. "I didn't realize our friends qualified as a 'pack,' but okay." 

Derek looked like he'd just been force-fed poison. "Stiles," he ground out. "I wasn't kidding when I told you I'm a werewolf." 

“Holy shit!” Stiles shouted, jumping back from the furry fang-toothed wolf-man suddenly standing in front of him. 

The wolf faded as quickly as it appeared. "Now, do you believe me?"

"Who else?" Stiles asked in a small voice, his mind already chugging away at 100 miles an hour. The first time he saw those red eyes wasn’t because of his concussion, then. 

"Scott," Derek said, blinking slowly. His eyes faded back to their normal hazel hue. "And you were the one who figured out that he was a werewolf in the first place. There's also Boyd, Erica, Isaac, and Jackson." 

 

Stiles tiled his head to the side. "So do you have like a dual personality? You and your wolf? Did you name your wolf?" 

"No, Stiles. I did not name my wolf. It's as much a part of me as my personality. Unlike my pack, I was born a werewolf.” He started out of the bedroom. “Come on, the rest of the pack will be here soon." 

Stiles followed him down the stairs without another word. 

Their friends arrived in a steady trickle. First, Isaac, then Erica and Boyd, followed by Lydia and Jackson, and finally Scott and Allison. Isaac, it seemed, was the only one unattached, but he didn't seem to mind. 

"I have a pack, Stiles," Isaac said when questioned about it, "and that is so much more important to me than a mate." 

Stiles watched him head around to the back of the house with the others in stunned silence. 

The wolves had already transformed by the time Stiles joined them. Derek gave him a meaningful look before turning away and running into the dark of the woods, encouraging his betas to follow. 

Stiles slumped down on the top step to the porch. The whole situation felt wrong, he just wasn't sure why. Behind him, Lydia and Allison were painting their nails at the glass-topped table. 

"Is it always like this?" he asked, looking over his shoulder at them. 

"No," Lydia replied without missing a beat. "You're usually helping us."

"You actually do a pretty good job," Allison agreed. 

Stiles pursed his lips and nodded. “I’m not surprised. All that time I had to spend with my little sister growing up must have paid off.” 

“You don’t have a sister,” Lydia said, looking at him suspiciously. 

“No, but I have Scott,” Stiles said, giving Allison a wide smile. He stood up and joined them at the table, long fingers trailing over the collection of nail polish bottles. “Would it be weird if I painted my own nails? Have I done that?” 

“Usually it’s your toenails,” Lydia said without looking up from her manicure. 

Stiles stared at his boot-clad feet, trying to remember if he’d seen polish on his toes. “Do I really?” he directed the question at Allison. 

“Sometimes,” she replied, glancing up as she wet her brush in a bottle of dark blue polish. “Once you even got Derek to let you paint his, but he took it off almost as soon as it dried.” 

“Huh,” Stiles said, digging his tongue into the side of his cheek as he surveyed the veritable palette of colors in front of him. “So it wouldn’t be weird if I . . .” his sentence trailed off as his fingers closed around a bottle of bright red polish. 

“Painted your nails to match Derek’s Alpha eyes?” Lydia asked. “Already done that. Numerous times. You said it’s because you—”

“Like to see the color his eyes turn when we’re having sex,” Stiles finished for her. “I don’t know where that came from,” he said, fingertips grazing his own lips like they’d betrayed him.

“Red, then,” said Allison firmly, giving Stiles an encouraging smile. “Is it going to be your fingers or your toes?” 

“I’m not sure,” Stiles murmured, considering his booted feet. “Which do I normally paint?”

“Once we convinced you to let us paint both,” Lydia said. 

“You could do both,” Allison readily agreed, shaking her head. 

Stiles shrugged. He uncapped the bottle and began painting his first finger with a level of concentration almost akin to a trance. Stopping to dip the brush, he moved onto the second finger. “Now I know why you pay other people to do this.” 

“Or talk you into it during the full moon,” Allison giggled. Lydia gave her a stern look, but Stiles was too focused on the nail polish to notice. 

“So what do they do out there, anyway?” Stiles asked, trying to make his tone sound as conversational as possible. 

“Hunt for deer,” Lydia replied seriously. 

“Really?” 

Lydia rolled her eyes. “Of course not. Mostly, they just run around and act like children, well, pups in this case, I guess. Derek says it’s good for them to run as a pack.” 

“What about Erica?”

“What about her?” Lydia raised her eyebrows and paused with her brush in the air just above the bottle. She gave him an intense look. 

Stiles opened his mouth to reply when a mournful howl rented the air, causing him to smear red paint across three fingers. "That's Derek," he said, sitting ramrod straight. "I don't know how I know, but that's Derek." 

Several other lupine voices lifted into the air, an echo of the first. 

Stiles looked between Lydia and Allison, but they didn’t seem concerned about the howling. “Do they always do that?” he asked nervously. 

“Sometimes,” Allison answered softly without looking up from her nails. 

“Doesn’t it bother you?” Stiles stared into the woods behind them as if the wolves would suddenly come barreling out into the backyard. His polish sat forgotten on the table.

“Why would it?” Lydia snapped. “They’re our pack. Howling is what wolves do. It’s probably just their way of expressing their excitement. Howling at the moon, or something.” 

They all knew she was lying, but Stiles let it go. Wolves, especially the non-human kind, use howling as a means of communication, and Stiles had a sinking feeling he knew what Derek was trying to say.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long (life has been INSANE--new job, etc.) but thank you guys so much for sticking with me. The final chapter has been written, and will be posted soon!

Stiles was sitting at the kitchen table nursing a glass of orange juice when Derek stumbled into the room. He opened the refrigerator and pulled out the nearly empty jug of milk, which he drained in one gulp. "Did you go to the store yesterday?" he asked, wiping his mouth on his bare arm. 

"Dude, we have glasses for that." Stiles lifted his own for emphasis. "And no, I didn't realize post-full moon werewolves required double the nutrients as that of their human counterparts. You could have said something."

Derek shrugged and belched loudly. "I'll go then. It should be a while before everyone wakes up, anyway. It's harder for the betas to recover."

"I heard you yesterday," Stiles said suddenly, staring down into his glass. "Your wolf." 

"And?" Derek crossed his massive arms over his chest, the frown he wore making him look even more surly than usual. 

"I knew it was you. Allison and Lydia acted like it was nothing out of the ordinary, like it was totally normal for me to recognize the sound of your howl, but I don't know you, Derek."

"So you know me, but you don't know me. Is there a point you're getting to here?"

"Why? Are you in a hurry to supply your betas with Vitamin D? Or are you just avoiding the subject?"

"Do not start with me, Stiles," Derek warned, eyes flashing red. "You may not remember this, but the day before and the day after the full moon are when I have the least amount of control over my wolf."

Stiles narrowed his eyes. "I'm terrified." 

Derek dropped his hands to his sides and clenched them into fists. "I'm leaving. Because if I don't, I'm going to do something we'll both regret." As he turned around, Stiles spoke up again. 

"You're hurt, Derek. I can feel it, sense it, and it’s hurting me." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. When Derek didn't move—didn't leave—Stiles continued. "I've been up all morning thinking, and all I can come up with is that we need to start over. I know I'm at point A, and you're at like point Q, but I don't know how we're going to end up on the same page if we don't do something. My memory isn't getting any better, so the least we can do is try to make the best of this situation, okay? You like me, and I, at the very least, am incredibly attracted to you, so, if you're up for it, I want to date you. Again. Well, again for you, and a first for me, but I think it's the best way that we can—"

"Okay," Derek said without turning around. 

"Okay?" Stiles repeated, eyebrows lifting. 

"As long as you understand that I'm not going to have first-date feelings for you."

"Duly noted," Stiles nodded exuberantly. 

Derek's fingertips twitched and he was gone in an instant. 

*

"What did I order the first time?" Stiles asked, looking over the menu eagerly. 

"Stiles," Derek sighed, setting his own menu down. Even before they left, it had been: What did I wear? Where did we sit? What did I say? "Recreating our first date isn't the answer." 

"Do you have a better idea?" Stiles asked seriously. He spun the wedding ring around his finger, a habit he'd developed after the accident. "This might not be your first memory of us dating, but it is mine." 

Derek reached across the table and took Stiles' hand. "So we create new memories. And when you get the old ones back, you'll just have more." 

"Are you trying to convince me or yourself?"

"Both, I think," Derek said, looking confused for a moment, and Stiles had to laugh. 

"I'm starting to see how I could fall in love with you." 

"It's possible," Derek said, pulling away to retrieve his own menu. "You have once already." 

The waitress returned to take their order. Stiles handed his menu back without looking at it once. "I'd like a bacon cheeseburger with curly fries and a strawberry milkshake." He looked at Derek expectantly. 

"Yep. Still the man I married," Derek confirmed. 

Stiles preened at the compliment. He waited until the waitress was out of earshot to continue their conversation. 

“When did you know you were in love with me?”

Derek took a sip from his water glass. “We started dating when you were sixteen . . .” He closed his eyes for a moment. “I think I knew I was in love with you when you saved my life by keeping me afloat in a swimming pool for two hours.”

“Well, that’s . . . creative.” 

“It’s a long story,” Derek grinned. “In short, Jackson coerced me into biting him, but instead of becoming a werewolf he turned into a lizard that tried to kill us all. His venom paralyzed me, but for some reason he was terrified of water.” 

“Wow,” Stiles said, eyebrows inching towards his hairline. “I’m a strong swimmer, but that’s impressive.”

“That’s not the only time you saved my life,” Derek said, eyes trained on Stiles. “Scott could probably give you a better version of the story, but we didn’t exactly hit it off when we met.”

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” Stiles said, folding his fingers under his chin. “See, the only thing I can remember about you is that your whole family died in a fire.” He blanched. “That was a little callous, wasn’t it?”

“It’s okay. Scott was bitten the night you guys went looking for a dead body in the woods, which actually belonged to my older sister, Laura. Then you accused me of turning Scott. And murdering my sister.” 

“And you still married me?” Stiles didn’t bother to hide his surprise. 

“Like I said, you’ve saved my life more than once. You also insinuated yourself in my heart in a very permanent way.”

Their waitress dropped off Stiles’ milkshake and he dove into it with gusto

“So how long did we date before I gave it up?” he asked, licking whipped cream off his spoon. 

“About three months.” 

“Three months?” Stiles repeated, accidentally flinging strawberry milkshake at Derek. “There’s no way I lasted three months before jumping your bones.”

“I was the one who wanted to wait, and even then I gave in a lot earlier than I had intended. If I had it my way, we would have waited until you were officially eighteen.” 

“Why?”

“You really have to ask me that? Let’s start with ‘your dad is the Sheriff’ for one, and ‘I was once accused of murder’ for two, not to mention the fact that I’m six years older than you.”

“Okay, okay. I get it. Geez, were you such a turn-off the first time we talked about this?”

“Actually, I think it was worse because we were having the conversation for real. You have to believe me when I say I had—do still have—your best interests at heart, Stiles. That’s why I married you.”

“How very Hallmark of you.”

Derek’s grin widened. “Do you want to know why you really call my car the ‘dick stiffer?’”

“Are you trying to tell me that I lost my virginity in the back of the Camaro?”

Derek’s answer was halted by the arrival of their food. They both pulled away from the table, allowing the girl to set down their plates. She disappeared again and they tucked into their dinner. 

“You didn’t answer my question,” Stiles said around a mouthful of hamburger. 

“Almost.” Derek set down his fork. “We managed to wait until we got inside. You were all for jumping me over the center console, though.”

“At least you were willing to put out eventually,” Stiles shrugged. 

“Funny that you aren’t,” Derek said, giving him a calculated look. 

Stiles narrowed his eyes. He shoved a handful of fries into his mouth. “I hate you,” he said finally. 

“I know.” Derek’s smile was smug.

*

After their date, the tension between them seemed to dissipate somewhat. Stiles still wasn't completely comfortable living with and sleeping next to a man he hardly knew, but they were making progress, at least. They took baby steps to rekindle their relationship: cooking together, date nights, and long talks. It was Stiles who made the first move. Neither of them expected Derek to do anything other than the (apparently) involuntary nighttime spooning. Not that Stiles was complaining. 

One night, they were curled up on the couch together watching a movie. Derek's head was pillowed on Stiles' lap, the younger man carding his fingers absentmindedly through his husband's dark hair. One of the first things Stiles relearned about werewolves was how tactile they were. If Derek was a were-cat, he probably would have been purring. His eyes were closed, a contented smile on his face. 

"You like that, big guy?" Stiles whispered, scratching his short nails gently over Derek's scalp.

"Mmm." Derek lifted his chin to expose the pale column of his throat. 

"Are you displaying your submission to me?" Stiles asked mildly, reaching a hand down to scratch at the stubble of Derek's beard beneath his chin. 

Derek's reply came out as a rumble. "Wolves don't bare their throats to just anyone." His eyes shifted to Alpha-red and Stiles felt his body flush with heat. Surreptitiously, he leaned away so that Derek wouldn't feel his half-hard dick poking him in the head. 

"Stiles?" Derek asked, leaning up on one elbow. Undoubtedly, he could smell the arousal leaking off his husband. 

Despite being completely unsure about what he was doing, Stiles leaned down and pressed his lips to Derek's in a firm kiss. Derek groaned and twisted around so that he was straddling Stiles' lap rather than laying in it. 

The front door slammed, making them jump in surprise.

"Really, guys?" Erica groaned, walking into the living room. "This is like walking in on my parents." 

Derek growled low in his throat. "Then walk back out and pretend you were never here." 

"Well, it's not like I expected to find the two of you making out on the couch. The rest of us sit on that, you know." 

Stiles’ cheeks were burning. He looked like he'd prefer the earth to just open and swallow him whole. He pushed Derek off of him and sat up, struggling to hide his hard-on.

"I come bearing gifts," Erica said, dropping the bag she held down on the coffee table. "I had an ultrasound today, which you apparently forgot, Alpha." She said the last word without anger. "It looks like the newest Hale is developing right on schedule. My guess is that he'll grow up to be a professional wrestler or something." 

Stiles watched his hand reach for the printouts like he was having an out-of-body experience. He could hear Derek and Erica’s conversation continuing without him, but the words didn’t make sense. His mind was suddenly flooded with flashes of memory, images . . . discussing baby names . . . shopping for furniture . . . touching Erica’s belly . . .

"Stiles?"

He blinked rapidly. 

"Are you okay?” Derek’s face was full of concern. Even Erica looked worried.

"I—those printouts triggered something in my memory. Snippets," he said, gesticulating with his hands as he explained what he saw. 

"That's a start," Derek said, giving him a real smile. 

Reaching out a hand, Stiles picked up one of the ultrasound photos. It didn’t look like much, but the shape of a baby was obvious. He traced his fingertips over the image, lost in thought.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last we come to the end of our journey. It hasn't been a terribly long one, but I hope you guys enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing.

Seeing the sonogram photos made things real in a way Stiles wasn’t ready for, and he wasn’t sure if he ever would be. Not only had the resurfacing of a few memories erased any doubt he might have had, it also sent him into the worst tailspin he’d experienced since the accident. Nothing made sense anymore. Every day was a constant battle between the reality in his head and the reality in front of his eyes. The pack tried to be supportive, but their patience was wearing thin. Between Stiles’ damaged brain and Erica’s pregnancy, their house was like a ticking time bomb. He couldn’t decide which one he wanted to go off first, but in the end, it turned out to be Erica. 

It was the middle of the night when Derek and Stiles arrived at the hospital. 

“They just took her back,” Isaac said. “Boyd is with her.” 

“Come on.” Derek grabbed Stiles by the hand. 

“Are you sure you want me there?”

Derek gave him a quizzical look. “You’re the other father. Why wouldn’t you be?”

Stiles felt his stomach drop to his knees and then slam up into his throat. Dumbly, he followed Derek into the delivery room. It was nothing like he had anticipated—no screaming, no doctors, no blood—just Erica lying on her side watching television while Boyd rubbed her back. 

“Well, this is surprisingly anticlimactic,” Stiles murmured. “Couldn’t you have waited until morning, at least?”

“How are you feeling?” Derek asked, sidling up to the bedside. 

“I’m in labor, Derek. How do you think I feel? Every ten minutes my uterus squeezes itself in an effort to expel your baby. Give me your balls and I’ll show you how it feels,” Erica groaned, rolling onto her back. “Someone get me a can of Coke.” 

“She’s all yours.” Boyd gave them a tight smile as he disappeared out the door. 

To Stiles’ disappointment, the next several hours were spent waiting. He and Derek took turns sitting with Erica. The rest of the pack stocked up on black coffee and vending machine food. At 7:01 in the morning, Stiles shouted for Derek to “Get your fucking ass in here! She’s having your baby!”

The fathers-to-be each took one of Erica’s hands. She couldn’t squeeze hard enough to hurt Derek, but Stiles had to pry her fingers off several times in fear that she would break his bones. Exactly 34 minutes later, their son was born. For Stiles, the whole world seemed to come to a stop when the baby was swaddled and placed in Derek’s arms. 

“I think . . .”

Derek pinned him with his gaze, undoubtedly assuming he remembered something. 

“I think I might pass out,” Stiles said in a tight voice. 

One of the nurses ushered him into a chair. “That’s not an uncommon reaction for new fathers,” she was saying, but Stiles tuned out the rest of her words. He lowered his head between his knees and focused on breathing. After several long minutes of deep inhales, a hand touched his shoulder. Stiles opened his eyes to find Derek’s face full of concern. 

“Are you okay?” 

Distrusting of his voice, Stiles nodded. 

“Do you want to step outside?”

Stiles nodded again. He took Derek’s proffered hand, allowing his husband to lead him out of the delivery room. Deliberately, he ignored the anxious looks from their friends.

The glare from the morning sun was almost too bright to see against when they walked out into the parking lot, and Stiles had to shield his eyes. He wandered aimlessly while Derek stood under the shaded canopy of the carport at the entrance, waiting patiently. Stiles stopped about twenty feet away and squinted back at him. “What if I never get my memory back?” 

He was far enough away that he raised his voice to be heard, despite Derek’s incredibly keen senses. The werewolf considered him for a moment, but before he could answer, Stiles continued. 

“I don’t know how to fill in the blanks for five of the most pivotal years of my life. I’m not ready to be a father. I’m only sixteen years old. I’m not the man you married, Derek. I’m just a kid. I should be worrying about making first string, and finishing my math homework, and . . .” He cast his eyes downward and finished lamely with, “girls.” Sweat prickled his skin, but he resisted the urge to swipe at the back of his neck. 

Derek continued to stare at him with those intense green eyes. “What do you need that you don’t already have right now, Stiles?” 

“Other than my memories?” The resulting laugh was hollow. “Nothing. Isn’t that the biggest kick in the ass? I always wanted a spouse and a family and a goddamn white picket fence and now that I have it, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with it! You’re not supposed to wake up one day and poof! here’s everything you ever wanted. Now I know how Aladdin felt.” He walked forward several steps, nearly closing the distance between them. “I don’t—I don’t like hospitals, okay? They remind me of my mom, and I hate thinking about her lying in that bed.” 

“I’m not going to make you go back in there if you don’t want to.” 

“Could I actually have the car keys, then? I’d like to go home and get some sleep. Maybe I’ll feel better after a nap.” 

“Of course.” Derek fished the keys out of his pocket and held them out. “Be safe.” 

Stiles met his eyes as his fingers closed around the metal. “I love you, too.” The words fell out of his mouth unwittingly. “We do that. That’s a thing,” he said, gesturing between their bodies erratically. 

Derek’s lips quirked into a smile. “It is definitely a thing.” 

*

Instead of going home, Stiles drove to his dad’s house. He knew the Sheriff was at work, and his house felt more like home than Derek’s. It also gave him some much-needed space to clear his head. 

Stiles ascended the stairs, fingertips trailing over the well-worn banister. Memories flowed over him— thoughts of his childhood, of he and Scott riding down the ledge backwards when they thought no one was looking. New photographs hung in the hall featuring events that—to Stiles’ mind—had yet to occur. He took Erica to senior Prom, apparently. They must have been closer than he thought. More photos—the pack at graduation, he and Derek on their wedding day. The last he stopped and stared at for a long time. The one on his dresser was almost identical to it, but in this one he and Derek were looking just past the camera like they saw something nobody else did. It was a candid shot that made them appear more vulnerable. Stiles shivered and looked away. 

He was pleasantly surprised to see that his old bedroom hadn’t changed much in five years. It seemed his dad had converted it to a guest room after he moved out, although his posters still hung on the wall, and the bedclothes were the same. The space still felt like his, like he never left. Without even bothering to kick off his shoes, Stiles collapsed face-first on the bed and was out within minutes. 

Dreams followed quickly, vague and strange the way dreams are wont to be. 

 

_. . . he and Scott preparing for the Sophomore year . . . listening in on his father’s police scanner . . . finding Laura’s body . . . Scott getting bitten . . . researching werewolves . . . meeting Derek . . . Allison’s dad hunting the werewolves . . . Peter’s recovery . . . Derek becoming the Alpha . . . Isaac, Boyd, and Erica becoming pack . . . Jackson and Matt attacking them . . . making first string . . . his first kiss with Derek . . . Peter attacking Lydia . . . coming out to his father . . . applying to college . . . Prom . . . losing his virginity . . . graduation . . . rebuilding the Hale house . . . Sunday brunch . . . Derek proposing . . . studying for his first set of college finals . . . the wedding . . . Erica becoming pregnant . . . climbing onto the roof of his dad’s house . . ._

_Stiles is sixteen, and it’s the fifth anniversary of his mother’s death. He has ignored all of Derek’s texts today, not out of spite, but because he just wants to be alone. His dad and Scott know why he’s in such a dour mood, and that’s enough. Derek will have to wait. They have only been officially dating for a little over four months, and there is still plenty of baggage left undiscussed between them. Derek hasn’t been very forthcoming about his family, so Stiles doesn’t feel the need to open up about his mother. They avoid talking about their relatives at all._

_Today, Stiles has driven out to the lake where he and his parents used to go fishing every summer. It reminds him of the good times, rather than the day they lowered his mother’s body into the ground. He parks his Jeep in the empty lot; he’s the only person in Beacon Hills crazy enough to drive out to the lake when it’s too cold to swim, but too warm for ice skating._

_Spreading out the blanket he brought, Stiles settles down on the bank. He pushes the heels of his hands against his eyes to stop the tears from falling. The water laps gently at the shore as if coaxing him to let loose. Wrapping his arms around his knees, Stiles allows himself to cry. His whimpers turn to sobs, heavy thundering gasps of breath that pour from his throat in anguish. He lets all of the pain wash over him, allows himself to remember what it was like losing her, sitting next to the hospital bed, holding her hand while she slipped away, despite his repeated pleas for her to stay._

_Eventually, his tears begin to subside and he wipes his nose on the sleeve of his red hoodie—the one his mother gave him for Christmas the year before she died—but irritation floods his chest when he hears the sound of tires on gravel. He doesn’t look, hoping the person is just turning around. But when the engine stops and a car door slams, Stiles grits his teeth. It seems he can’t ever have a moment of peace._

_He pulls his hoodie tighter around himself willing the person to ignore him. Interrupting someone’s solitude is one thing, but on a day like today, Stiles is liable to punch someone without thinking twice. His body stiffens as the sound of footsteps gets closer. Inside the pockets of his hoodie, he clenches his hands into fists. The person stops at a distance way too close for comfort, and it takes Stiles everything he has to remain silent and still. Maybe if they think he’s deaf or dumb, they’ll just go away._

_“Your dad said I might find you out here.”_

_Stiles looks up at the sound of Derek’s voice, painfully aware of his red-rimmed eyes, tear-stained cheeks and runny nose. “To the winner go the spoils,” he replies, too tired to fight._

_“Do you mind if I sit down?” Derek asks with his own hands tucked into the pockets of his leather jacket and a wool scarf wrapped around his neck to guard against the cold._

_The teenager lifts one shoulder by way of reply and Derek seats himself on the blanket. Stiles holds his breath, waiting for the questions, the lecture that never comes. Eventually, his lungs begin to burn and he releases the air he holds as slowly and quietly as possible. Still, Derek remains silent. It is Stiles’ irritation that wins out._

_“What do you want?” he snaps, looking over at Derek._

_The older man raises his eyebrows in question._

_“You drove all the way out here to find me, Derek. Obviously you didn’t plan to just sit here and watch me wallow in my pain. What. Do. You. Want?” he enunciates each of the words in his request, anger growing with every breath._

_“I don’t want anything from you, Stiles,” Derek says softly._

_The answer makes Stiles see red. He flings himself at Derek, hurling fists and insults until he runs out of breath. Derek takes it all; he just sits there, accepting everything Stiles throws. Exhausted and panting, Stiles collapses against his chest. Derek wraps his arms around his boyfriend, tucking him into the edges of his jacket. They sit there as the sun sets around them. By the time night falls completely, Stiles is lying in Derek’s lap, nestled into the warm leather cocoon the werewolf provides._

 

Stiles awoke an indeterminable time later with his dad shaking his shoulder and calling his name. He opened one eye lazily as if to chastise his father for waking him up. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice deep and thick with sleep. 

“I happen to live here,” the Sheriff laughed. “I was actually wondering the same thing about you. I saw the Camaro out front.”

Stiles closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Then his sleep-induced stupor vanished like a fog lifting from the forest floor. He sat up like a shot. “Oh, fuck, Derek! He must be out of his mind! I didn’t tell him where I was going. Shit! I’m sorry, Dad, but I’ve got to go.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed, searching his pockets while his father watched in silence. Stiles spied his phone on the floor and lunged for it, muttering, “. . . can’t believe I slept that long . . .”

“Stiles,” his dad barked, finally drawing the young man’s attention away from the device in his hands. “What is going on?”

“Dad, I’m back,” he said, the fingers on both of his hands spread expressively wide. “It’s like . . . I’m back online, or something. Everything that was lost the last few weeks is back. Even though I was here, I wasn’t. It’s almost like I was on an unwilling mental vacation or something—” Stiles suddenly found himself the object of a bone-crushing hug that he was too happy to return. 

*

After taking his dad to the hospital only to find out Derek had left, Stiles drove home as fast as he dared, drumming his thumbs anxiously on the steering wheel. He parked the Camaro cockeyed next to his Jeep and jumped out. 

“Derek!” he called, wrenching open the front door. “Derek!” 

The man appeared at the top of the stairs with a toothbrush in his hand. “Where were you?” he asked, dark eyebrows knitting together. 

Stiles took the stairs two at a time. He launched himself at Derek, pushing them against the nearest wall. “At my dad’s—that’s not important,” he mumbled, an inch away from Derek’s lips. 

“I came straight home from the hospital,” Derek replied, holding up his toothbrush like it offered an explanation. 

“Baby, it’s me. It’s me. I’m back,” Stiles said, taking Derek’s stubbled cheeks between his hands. 

“You remember?” Derek whispered, eyes searching intently for the truth. Emotion began to overtake him, and his eyes filled with tears. He blinked and they spilled over. “I missed you so fucking much, Stiles.” 

They kissed like men drowning and only the other’s air could save them. Saliva mingled with tears, and Stiles wrapped his legs around Derek’s waist as the werewolf lifted him from the ground. They bumped their way into the bedroom, still locked at the mouth as they fought to remember one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next fic I'm working on has already been sent to the beta. Hopefully, I'll post it this week. It will also be a multi-parter, but it's not going to have anything to do with children, unlike the last three fics I've written (apparently). The only thing I'm going to say about it is that it's were!Stiles, something I've been rather reticent about writing, but it just wouldn't stay quiet.


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